Chapter 3: Search

Chapter 3
SEARCH

 

I

 

Ring. Ring. The sound of the phone on the other end came through the receiver.

Each ring was another dagger in the man’s chest.

His emotions had been thrown into disarray. One moment, he worried what he would do if she answered. The next, he worried what he would do if she didn’t—and back and forth again.

A minute ago, he had intended not to call her. He didn’t want to cause her any distress if it could be at all avoided. But he couldn’t stop wondering if she had read his letter, and—a blush tinged his dark complexion—he wanted to hear her voice, even if only for a fleeting moment.

Ring. Ring. Ring. The phone had sounded over twenty times now.

He was positive she must be home. It was after midnight. Surely she was home by now. He possessed nearly complete knowledge of her schedule, gleaned from fan magazines and other sources. Her only appearance today had been as a guest on a radio show.

If she was out having fun with someone—the very thought sent another sharp pang through his chest—she would have left her answering machine on.

Could it be? The man ran his bony fingers back and forth through his long, unkempt hair. Could she be pretending not to be home?

No, the man told himself. She wouldn’t do that to me.

He thought of Mima’s manager, that ugly, bald, middle-aged bastard. Maybe she’s assuming it’s her manager calling.

Thinking of how Mima must feel, having to dodge phone calls just to escape her manager, the man pitied her. He suspected the manager was a source of constant harassment. As the phone rang for the thirtieth time, a righteous indignation sprang to life.

He wished he could go to her this very moment and comfort her.

Just before the fortieth ring, the man finally gave up and placed the receiver back in its cradle. There’s only so much I can do by phone. I have to find her address. I need to meet her in person.

Thinking about how badly he wanted to meet her, he hugged his arms around his chest. Waves of bittersweet emotion flooded him, almost tickling.

The man had never been in love. He had no way of knowing what love felt like. But when he thought of her, his heart seemed to flutter, and he wondered if what he was feeling might be the same as love.

Then, as had happened every time that notion crossed his mind, a dark and blue emotion raised its head from somewhere deep inside him.

It’s not love! he told himself, flatly rejecting the idea. It’s not. It’s not love! The corners of his lips trembled in disapproval. I exist to save her. I exist to prevent her from going down the wrong path. He looked to the life-sized poster of Kirigoe Mima he kept on his wall. Youthful and pure, she smiled back at him.

I am here to protect that smile, he reminded himself. I must never forget that.

That reminder finally allowed him to regain control of his nerves—but he’d seen inside himself and found a man who needed to be more composed. When he saw that man, a bottomless terror came over him. He trembled like a little girl who had seen a ghost.

He didn’t want to witness his own weakness. He wanted to be a strong man, if only when it came to her.

 

The man retrieved a video tape from the rows upon rows of cassettes that filled the shelving unit. The tape contained a recording of Kirigoe Mima at the very beginning of her career. Among its contents were even some of the lessons she took before her debut.

The man inserted the tape into the VCR and switched on his 29-inch TV. With a dull electric hum, the screen came to life.

Beside the TV stood more shelves, also stuffed full of tapes, and topped with a seemingly careless pile of the things. In fact, tapes were everywhere in the modest, six tatami-mat-sized room, and almost every one contained footage of idol singers. Only one space remained vacant amid the mountains of cassettes and that was where the man sat.

Though the piles appeared disorganized, the man knew the exact location of each and every recording. Eyes still locked on the TV, upon which a rookie Mima sang, the man reached automatically for another tape.

This one contained his most recent recording of Mima. He put the tape into a second VCR and switched on a smaller TV adjacent to the larger one. On the small display appeared the Mima of today. On the larger one was Mima as she had debuted.

Kirigoe Mima was known for largely sticking to the same image throughout her career—but compared side-by-side, the changes were significant and unmistakable.

The man clenched his teeth and fought back his surging emotions. To him, the best Mima was the one directly after her debut. He almost wished she had never become a pop idol, though he felt strange thinking that way.

The singer had survived childhood without losing her innocence; to submerge her in the polluted waters of the entertainment industry could only be described as the devil’s work. If she hadn’t become an idol, she likely would have remained the same person forever.

The man believed that would have been the happiest outcome, both for her and for himself.

Then again, if she had never become an idol, he never would have known her.

Filled with mixed emotions, he watched the current Mima, a much more mature woman than she had been upon her debut. Softly he whispered, the words coming from deep within, “I don’t want you to change any more.”

This most recent Mima had changed just about as much as he could tolerate.

He didn’t want to acknowledge it—he really didn’t—but he couldn’t avoid the truth. She carried an air of sexuality now. It wasn’t yet so strong that he couldn’t bear it—for now, he could endure. But he couldn’t let it get any stronger.

He didn’t want to see his most precious person succumb to corruption. That was why he needed to save her—no matter who tried to stand in his way.

He understood her better than anyone else. If he didn’t rescue her, then who would?

He was prepared to give his life, if that’s what it took to save her. He just didn’t know how it could be done. He had spent days thinking of nothing else. Time was running out. If he didn’t act soon, she would become someone other than herself.

The man reached for a plain paper bag on his desk. From inside the bag, he withdrew a long, skinny object wrapped in a piece of cloth. When his eyes rest upon the cloth, relief softened his expression.

Slowly, he unwrapped it. The contents fell onto the desk with a dull thud.

It was a knife with a white grip and a long, gleaming blade. He gripped the weapon by the handle, and his mouth twisted into a smile.

This was it. If all else failed, this was how he could save her.

For that reason, he cherished the knife deeply. He patted the flat side of the blade against his cheek and took pleasure in the sensation of cold metal against his skin.

 

II

 

Mima felt a bit feverish; she wondered if it was because she hadn’t been getting enough sleep. Usually she felt excited before recording a song, but instead she felt blue. She’d been in poor form lately, and it was all that freak’s doing.

Not only had he called her, he’d gotten a letter to her as well—going so far as trespassing in the television studio. It was too much for her to forgive. At first, when Rumi told her about the stalker’s visit, Mima had been overcome by incredible terror. But now, the fear had turned to anger.

Whoever this obsessive fan was, he was probably a bitter, pathetic excuse of a man, someone who never went out on dates, never played any sports, and just sat shut away in his room all alone. When she pictured him in her mind, the image filled her with bristling irritation.

Though the more unsavory type of fan had been more prevalent in the past, these days, the men who followed idols were a mostly pleasant sort. Fan or not, she wished the police—or anyone, really—would crack down on all the nasty ones like him.

She couldn’t even relax in her own bed anymore. How could she, when he could call again at any moment? Each time her phone rang, her heart froze for just a second. Even worse, he might have tracked down her address by now. What if he came in person?

She made a sour face, like she’d just stepped on a slug with her bare foot.

 

Sniffling, Mima told Rumi, “I’ve decided to tell Bon-chan.”

With her hair artlessly gathered in the back and her face showing little if any makeup (though naturally still cute), her outward appearance spoke of an inner weariness.

Rumi set a cup of coffee in front of the idol. The assistant nodded and said, teary-eyed, “I was wrong for thinking to keep it to myself. I hope you can forgive me…”

“It’s fine, Rumi-chan. What’s done is done. The person I can’t forgive is that creep. Look at all the trouble he’s caused us—that so called ‘Darling Rose.’ Give me a break!”

When Mima debuted as an idol, she’d been given the slightly offbeat English tagline, “The Charming Rose.” That must have been where the man came up with his pen name.

“I’m going to talk with Bon-chan,” Mima said. “We’ll come up with a plan. I’ve told him about this guy before. Bon-chan thought he was merely some dreary, miserable fan and that we should just leave him be. But now that this freak came into the studio, we can’t ignore him anymore.”

Mima balled one hand into a fist and punched at the air. “If he shows up in front of me, I’ll beat the living daylights out of him.”

Mima grinned devilishly, and Rumi, taken in by the smile, formed a small one of her own. The sight came as a relief to the idol, who hadn’t seen her assistant smile since the night Rumi admitted to hiding the letter.

Rumi said, “And if I see him again, I’ll grab him with my own two hands and give him what he has coming.”

“That’s the spirit,” Mima said. “You know he’s bound to be a total wimp. If we stand up to him, he’ll go running with his tail between his legs.”

 

Mima gave Tadokoro the letter to read. Later, in a small storage room at the rear of the recording studio, perched upon folding chairs, Mima and Rumi told him what had happened at the television station.

“Did you see his face?” he asked, drawing in one corner of his mouth and pushing air out through his teeth.

“No. The light was coming in directly behind him.”

Tadokoro downed the rest of his now tepid coffee and ran his hands through his thinning hair. He glanced at Mima, who gave him the sort of smile that didn’t really say anything.

Tadokoro said, “This guy must be a fan—albeit a crazed one. He’ll have shown himself at concerts and events. Rumi-chan, are you sure you can’t remember anything?”

Rumi shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, I just can’t. Between the sunlight and how scared I was, I didn’t see much of him at all.”

“It happened so suddenly, Bon-chan,” Mima intervened. “No one could be expected to remember what he looked like. What we need to discuss is what we’re going to do about him.”

“Do you think it’s the same man who’s been calling you?” her manager asked.

“I’m almost certain of it. The man on the phone said he’d come see me, and the letter talked about having tracked down my phone number.”

Tadokoro spread open the crumpled letter and read it again. He’d already read it many times since Mima had brought it to him. Each time he did, he felt even more deeply disturbed than before.

Almost to himself, he muttered, “At first, I dismissed the calls as just the work of some obsessive fan. But now that he’s come to the TV station and gotten a letter to you, we can’t wave this away as simple harassment.” He gave an exasperated shrug.

Sounding less than confident, Rumi offered, “Do you think we should notify the police?”

Tadokoro hummed in serious thought. He wanted to tell the police, but as of this moment, the stalker hadn’t committed any crime. He hadn’t made a direct threat or caused any harm. The police wouldn’t act just because the guy was being unpleasant. And if word of the matter leaked to the public, the entertainment media would make a big joke out of it at Mima’s expense. It could harm her image.

“Maybe I’m being selfish here,” Tadokoro said, “but from the agency’s standpoint, I don’t want this to become a police matter. We need to find this man by our own means and set him straight.”

Mima understood where he was coming from. Part of her thought she shouldn’t let herself be so afraid of some troubling phone calls and a letter. But another part of her thought Tadokoro didn’t understand how frightening the stalker was.

“Regardless,” Tadokoro said, patting her firmly on the back, “we’ll wait and see what he does next. In the meantime, worrying about it won’t get us anywhere.”

Mima and Rumi looked at each other and sighed. The idol said, “You’re right. There’s nothing else we can do now but wait and see.”

Tadokoro stood and stretched his arms over his head. “Mima, I want you to take a quick break, and then we’ll go over your new song. Forget about that creep and focus on the music.” With a small wave, he rose and left them.

Mima and Rumi stood immediately and followed Tadokoro out. As the three walked down the dim hallway, he muttered to no one in particular, “There’s so many freaks and weirdos these days. Crazed fans, pedophiles… Speaking of which, they never found the guy who killed that girl—the one who cut the skin from her leg. Who the hell goes around cutting off people’s skin, anyway?”

Over his shoulder, Tadokoro tossed Mima a grin. “Mima, be careful not to get your skin cut off.”

For a moment, Mima felt a jolt of pain, as if she could feel the knife in her flesh.

The manager gave her a carefree chuckle and said, “I’m kidding, Mima. It’s just a joke.”

But Mima didn’t laugh. It may have been meant in jest, but it was nasty, all the same. And as little as she appreciated the joke, she hoped it would stay one.

 

III

 

The man’s body shook in big, shoulder-rocking waves. He sensed that some great calamity was going to befall him, though he didn’t know what it was, or when it would come, or what form it would take. An immense and shapeless dread had grown deep within his heart, and it warned him that the thing he held dearest would be brought to ruin.

But what did he hold dearest? He searched inside himself for the answer.

Was it love? Was it dreams? Family?

No, it wasn’t any of those things. Not a chance.

His own life? Now that was something dear. But was it the dearest? He wasn’t confident that it was. There had to be something more important than that.

Suddenly, in his innermost thoughts, a word formed: purity.

At that moment, convulsions shot through his body. Purity. That which was unsullied, unspoiled. Yes, the man’s inner voice cried out, that’s it!

Purity was what he held dearest. Purity was the only thing he could trust in this world of lies.

To protect it, he would willingly give his life.

Kirigoe Mima’s presence as a symbol of purity was the reason the man was so inordinately drawn to her.

A long time had passed since idol singers were synonymous with purity. These days, they all sold their sex appeal as a commodity. To the last, those women weren’t idols. They were nothing more than prostitutes.

He hated them. He scorned their use of sex. Females were always using their sex to lead men astray. They stripped men of moral integrity and made them into sexual slaves. As far as he was concerned, they were witches who cast misfortune upon the world.

Except… The man’s expression brightened. Kirigoe Mima is different.

She was pure to the core of her being, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. At least, that’s what he believed—and he didn’t want to lose her purity. Her purity was his only reason to go on living.

Slowly, he began to see the form of the great calamity he feared. An unease spread within him. What if she were to change into something completely different?

That would never happen, he told himself, banishing the thought. But even after he cast the thought away, his mind filled with an indescribable fear.

Tears filling his eyes, he entreated her, Mima-san, I’m begging you. Please don’t change. Please don’t change any more than you already have.

He turned those teary eyes onto the small table in front of him. On the table was the magazine that had been the source of his anxiety. The front cover—a bright, solid red—read: “From Pure to Sexy: Kirigoe Mima to Attempt a Photoshoot!!”

As he stared at the words, he started to believe the only course left for him was to take action.

 

IV

 

Mima didn’t get back to her apartment until two in the morning. She’d been a guest on a late-night radio talk show where she’d mostly discussed her upcoming song. Mima counted the single as her seventh commercial release, though the true number was at least ten, when 12-inch vinyl variant releases were included. In any event, this was to be the seventh song intended for on-air rotation.

Her manager had a lot riding on this song. He wanted nothing less than the top of the charts.

In truth, it was a great song. It had a driving house-music beat and pop essence to spare. An idol singer couldn’t ask for anything more. Still, Mima had trouble believing she would make number one.

Of her past songs, the highest charting had been about a year ago, a 12-inch remix version of “Innocence Forever!” That one might have reached number five. At best, the others had barely squeaked into the top ten.

To aim for number one was a lofty aspiration.

Bon-chan is getting out of touch, Mima thought. A traditional type like me is already behind the times, and idols as a whole don’t have as much pull as they used to. I wish he wouldn’t let his expectations get too high.

Tadokoro had winked at her and said he had a surefire plan to get her to number one, but she hadn’t understood what he meant. But now she made the connection—she saw what he had in mind. Her new song was slated to release alongside her new photo book. The release of that risqué volume would get people talking, and the publicity would boost her CD sales.

Mima exhaled a puff of air. If selling CDs were that easy, she wouldn’t have to work so hard.

She doubted any photo of her would convey much selling power. No matter how risqué these pictures were, she wasn’t about to appear in anything so extreme as to land her in a plastic-wrapped book, or in an urabon—the “books in the back,” so named because the illegal nature of their uncensored pornographic images meant their purveyors kept them in back rooms and under the counter.

I’ll be lucky to chart at number nine, she thought, alongside a sense of guilt for not believing in her manager.

Of course, when the radio host asked her, she’d said, “I’m taking this song all the way to number one. You can count on it!”

To tell the truth, though, Mima’s manager wasn’t the only one who had a lot riding on this release—she did, too. One fact was as clear as day: if she kept on following this same course as a traditional idol, her success would slowly and inevitably dwindle. Her more popular peers were all searching for a new trend, taking influences from rock, Eurobeat, and elsewhere. Were Mima alone to remain stagnant, staying her course, she would face an all-too-inevitable outcome.

Certainly, some said that Mima’s traditional nature was her appeal. With the broadening and diversifying ideas of what an idol could be, some fans appreciated Mima’s unchanging stance.

But those voices formed a minority opinion at best. Mima had long ago accepted that the way she had been—not even wanting to appear in a swimsuit—was going to have to change.

Take that newcomer, Ochiai Eri. From the time Eri made her debut, she had sold her sex appeal farmore than her cuteness. Modern fans were looking for the woman in the idol. Mima could hear Eri’s mocking voice: “How long is she going to keep up the innocent girl act?”

If Mima was going to conquer that voice, she would have to become a new person.

As she read the score to her new song, she vowed to herself, I’m going to change!

 

V

 

This was not a normal day for Tadokoro. Since the early morning, the manager had been practically frantic, running between every TV and radio station he could, all to promote Mima and her upcoming song. If he didn’t, the media would largely ignore an idol with such a demure and subdued image. After all, Mima wasn’t going to get in a lover’s quarrel or try cutting her wrists or anything like that. Still, this was her only career; she had no side job. For her sake, Tadokoro needed to do the legwork. He needed to maintain relationships with the broadcasters.

The manager believed in Mima’s innate talents as an artist, in her potential for success, but her nature was not conducive to self-promotion. As a result, her CD sales thus far hadn’t done much to break away from the rest of the idol pack.

Tadokoro had worked as her manager for many years now, and he yearned to give her a number one song. No matter how tough her schedule became, she never uttered a single word in complaint. She was a good kid; she always showed genuine consideration toward her manager and the agency’s staff.

If it were in his power, Tadokoro hoped to secure her a spot as the nation’s top idol for at least the next several years. As evidenced by the recent telephone harassment, a significant number of her fans were the antisocial type, and Tadokoro had always kept them in mind when he crafted Mima’s image.

But maybe he didn’t need to do that anymore. Maybe he could be forgiven for betraying those fans, as long as he did it for Mima. At least, that was Tadokoro’s read of the situation as he worked out his plan for her new song.

He hadn’t told Mima about it yet, but he’d devised an accompanying costume for maximum impact. Despite how she presented herself, Mima possessed a rather glamorous and even voluptuous figure. As the Charming Rose, Mima had been concealing that sex appeal—but no longer.

Tadokoro was planning to turn her sex appeal up 120 percent.

He’d even thought of a few new taglines for her: “The Neo Sexy,” “Naked Heart,” “Dainty Diva,” and so on, all of them refuting Mima’s innocent image.

Just the costume in and of itself was a far cry from that image of purity: a white tank-top blouse lay held in place by two mere suggestions of shoulder straps; the neckline dropped to emphasize the valley between her breasts, and the fabric would do little to restrict any bouncing that might occur when the singer danced. The white wrap-around miniskirt left an edge dangling, enough to tease already titillated TV viewers into wondering if it all might fall away. White knee-high socks—along with a large ribbon on the back of her head and the rear of her skirt—emphasized Mima’s cuteness, even while they brought a dissonant, kinky edge to the look.

As Tadokoro looked at the sketch for the costume, he nodded in satisfaction. If Mima gives this look the okay, her song will take number one for sure.

 

VI

 

A tense mood hung over the Moon Kids Talent Agency’s meeting room, where an all-hands meeting was being held for Kirigoe Mima’s new song. Mima herself was in attendance, and her nervousness colored her expression.

Tadokoro distributed copies of the costume sketch. When Mima saw it, she let out a startled laugh.

The husky-voiced manager of the production department spoke first. “Bon-chan, that’s pretty extreme, don’t you think?”

Tadokoro looked him in the eye and said, “If we’re going to change Mima’s image, we shouldn’t do it by half measures. It would be better to do nothing at all than to make just a minor change.”

The head of production had nothing to say against that. He nodded his head in silent agreement.

Tadokoro continued. “Until now, Mima has relied on her innocence. But some day soon, that path will reach a dead end. I’ve been Mima’s manager since her debut. I understand her untapped potential better than anyone.”

He glanced to Mima. “I believe Mima can become a much, much bigger star. This song can take her to that next level. Even the title, ‘Sexy Valley,’ might seem a bit aggressive, but I chose it for that very reason. As you can see, I went all out with the costume, and Mima’s photo book will be released simultaneously with the song, sharing the same title. I’ve already told the TV networks the direction we’re taking Mima in, and I’m counting on everyone here to come on board.”

Tadokoro’s impassioned speech seemed to overpower everyone present. Even Mima felt moved, in a way.

His deep voice resonant, the head of production announced, “I hear what you’re saying, Bon-chan, and I agree with you. But we still need to hear Mima’s opinion.”

The man looked to Mima, who sounded a bit sulky when she said, “If that’s the agency’s decision, I’ll go along with it.”

She was glad to see Tadokoro’s enthusiasm, but she didn’t like the sound of changing who she was to fit into this sensual image. Besides—no matter how extreme a makeover, she doubted anyone would see her as sexy.

On the other hand, a fire burned inside her, a deep desire to triumph over Ochiai Eri.

“If we’re going to do this,” she said, “I’d rather go with a bold plan than one that only goes halfway. It’s time to leave the innocent act behind and be a bombshell.” Mima grinned, and Tadokoro made a happy, victorious fist pump.

“If that’s what Mima says,” Tadakoro said, “then this song is practically a hit already! She just made a tough decision, so I want everyone to put in their best effort and not let her down. We’re getting the number one spot—not number two or three.” For emphasis, he wrote a giant number one on the meeting room blackboard. “For Mima’s new image to succeed, we need to own the top of the charts. We have to let the world know this is no passing phase or fad.” The manager looked to a young staffer. “Ken, how do you think Mima’s fans will react?”

The man called Ken scrambled to his feet and produced a small stack of survey responses. “Umm, we sent out a survey to members of her fan club and received a largely negative response. However, I want to emphasize that we only asked fan club members, which are primarily her most passionate fans. Still, nearly all of them were against her taking this new, sexier direction. Member number fifteen, a male from Yokohama wrote, ‘I want her to stay the Charming Rose forever,’ while number thirty, a male from Osaka said, ‘Please don’t betray us,’ and—well, you get the gist of it.”

Ken distributed copies of the report to everyone present. Tadokoro gave the report a glance and said, “Of course someone who’s already her fan won’t want her to change. But we have our own thinking. I believe we can move on without fans like these. If they’re so selfish that they’d force Mima to stay a child forever, we don’t want them anyway.”

Tadokoro looked to Mima. They could see it in each other’s faces: both were thinking of the man on the phone. For a second, a chill ran down the idol’s spine.

The head of production sniffed in gentle disapproval and said, “Bon-chan, you shouldn’t speak so harshly. We need her fans to come with her. We’re looking to add to them, not to replace them.”

“I’m sorry, but I have to disagree,” Tadokoro said. “Fans like these aren’t fans at all. True fans would want to see the idol grow; they ought to be willing to stomach a little image change if that’s what it takes. I refuse to allow any so-called fan to hold her down or drag her back!”

 

VII

 

After the meeting finished, Mima and Rumi went to a convenience store near the singer’s apartment. In her casual clothes, Mima could have been any normal woman. No one would guess she was Kirigoe Mima, the idol. If anything, Rumi was more likely to draw attention.

“Tomorrow’s the first day of your photoshoot, isn’t it?” her assistant asked.

“Yeah,” Mima said, picking out a cup of instant soup. “It’s going to be tough—not like the easy shoots I’m used to doing.”

“Please be careful. I’m still worried about that creeper…”

“I will be. But Bon-chan seems to have some plan, and I haven’t gotten one of those horrible calls for a while now.”

Rumi smiled. “I’m happy to hear that.”

The two purchased their cup soups and bread, along with some sanitary items and stockings, and then headed for Mima’s apartment.

The city outside had begun to grow dark, and the faces of the occasional passersby were ill-defined in the dim light. It was the perfect hour for a secret rendezvous.

With a small laugh, Mima said, “This is the most eerie time of day,” and Rumi bobbed her head in agreement.

At that very moment, a man stepped out from the convenience store. He had been watching them shop inside. He started after the two women, as if in pursuit, shoulders hunched over to make his presence less noticeable.

His long hair tumbled across his face, and in the dusky shadows, he appeared as a ghost. The man’s white T-shirt and blue jeans were ubiquitous, but the design on his T-shirt was most unusual, so garishly bright it stood out even in the twilight. The picture was that of an anime character—an adorable little girl, whose face covered his entire back.

Hunched over, the man followed Mima and Rumi.

His hair formed shadows that concealed his face, but his queerly glimmering eyes betrayed a tormented mind. He muttered to himself, the words spoken but unheard.

“I can’t wait any longer. There’s no more time…”